narcissus syndrome
by the mehssiah
Summary: and who was to say that they were - weren't - in love? ―— belarus/norway. rated for safety.


_the nymphs prepared the funeral pyre, but there was no body in which to place it; all that remained in his place was a flower._

It was not the fact that Belarus was beautiful; oh, no – everyone knew that. Hungary and Company seethed over it, silently, behind polite (rigid) masks and regretted, because they weren't like that (as beautiful), and they shouldn't have been like that (petty and envious). Rather, it was that Norway was more beautiful, him and his elegance, porcelain and wide eyes and delicate lines. (And that, somehow, was fine. Nothing like having men prettier than America's airbrushed finest at your side.)

Everyone lied; they said that they'd always believed it would happen, believed that the stars would meet and become one. They'd say this in such ways and words, as if their relationship was some affair. _Scandalous_. Some partnership deeper than the silent glances they shared, chaste conversations consisting of insubstantial phrases, and the entwined entrances they made together (deeper than what they saw, which in truth, was indistinguishably far more and far less than any of that).

They made an almost inhuman duo, the kind that seemed to radiate outward unknowingly. Catching every wandering eye that passed (and those with destination, too, became ensnared in their glow).

And rather than notice the shocks and oddities that came with the manifestation of the couple, the public, as the public would, was only surprised by the little things about them. How Belarus had given up on her brother, for instance, was the talk of the room when it came to the two. Though, wasn't that something to be expected? One couldn't chase winter forever – not that Norway wasn't winter; he was. Just a different kind. (Sometimes she debated, to herself, whether he was better or worse. To that there was no clear answer.)

The real strange things were secret – or maybe not secret, per se, but simply unknown – and far worse than the word "strange" could describe.

Because, see, they weren't attracted to each other, but what they found of themselves in each other. They were looking into mirrors, Narcissus by the pool (wasting away). Vanity should have been one of the deadly sins. It went hand-in-hand with so many of them. Envy, pride, wrath – lust, if it went on far enough –_  
><em><br>"I'd like to… ah, court you?"__

_"Why?"_

_Belarus might have instigated the drunken storytelling (what they pretended were their most well-kept secrets), but Norway was the one that decided he wanted more. As though something he could call something could be wrung out of their hearts. And Belarus would insist they were only together because they were vain, and that that vanity was just a vice (or was it the opposite – was she telling herself that they were together because there was something more?_

_It was a tangled conundrum, society's way of telling them that it was done with them and this was how they were going to be, forever. Russia could love Belarus back and nothing would change, because that was just how it was. Something would, inevitably, destroy all bridges. She didn't know how to deal with reciprocation. And Norway was too distant and detached – maybe he didn't love and his heart was shrunken and shriveled._

_Did that make them perfect for each other?)._

_"Why not?"_

_He never got an answer, and that was good enough. He wrapped his arm around hers, and she flinched but did nothing else, and that was good enough. He kissed her goodnight, and she stayed still as he tucked stray hairs behind her ear, and that was good enough. (His relationships were all good enough, borderline. He learned to cope.)_

– and maybe it had. Maybe it hadn't. Who would tell them? Who would've known?

After all, the world saw them as nothing more than an unexpected couple. Happy, even. The way Norway tenderly (regretfully, longingly) looked at her, the way Belarus shyly (warily, cautiously) brushed her hand against his. The Nordics and Slavs might have had suspicions, of something, anything, but they would never know.  
><em><br>They were so alike. In personality: aloof and lying through their teeth; devoted, determined; emotionally incapable, adept at nothing relationship-wise. They found solace in finding each other (themselves) and hated themselves (and thus, each other). And superficially: the delicate curves of their frames; the unblemished, satiny skin; the cool glances and their violet-blue eyes. Superficially – and that was what the world thought. What did they see in each other? Looks, probably. Belarus was beautiful and Norway was even more. (And Belarus was lonely and Norway was, even more. Pretty is as pretty does; who could love the ugly beauty but the uglier, more beautiful?)_

_In any case, the world thought they were happy. Aesthetically, they were the perfect couple, and who had time to be unhappy when they were perfect? It wasn't like they were wrong; Norway and Belarus, they weren't unhappy._

Society's mistake was in the assumption that if the couple wasn't unhappy, they must have been happy. In reality, they were lonely alone and even lonelier together; their love was one born of apathy and desperation – a contradiction, perhaps. They were just used to it, and like pain, their tolerance to loneliness was high.

They felt it more acutely, though – sensitivity to constant exposure; a painfully low pain threshold.

(Maybe Norway had never learned to deal with mediocrity. Maybe Belarus had never gotten used to emotional detachment. Maybe they clung to each other, lifeboats in their personal oceans, because who better to love never enough, to never be there for, than someone whose heart was forever gone to someone else or the passing of time? Who better to love than someone just like you, pathetic and hopeless?

_Self-destructive fools,_ said society once it found out. Vanity really should have been a sin.)

* * *

><p><strong>an – pencil. **we wanted to write together. this pairing was chosen semi-randomly.


End file.
